


As You Wish

by cloverfield



Category: Princess Bride (1987)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Rule 63, That But Lesbians, Westlea is the Soft Butch of My Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: “Farm girl,” Buttercup says briskly, striding past her horse with cloak swinging, and hair loose about her shoulders. “Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it bymorning.” Hard work, for leather, and she knows it - but blue eyes are nothing but gentle as Westlea looks up, tanned face calm and still.“As you wish,” is the murmur, those eyes still so soft on her face as Westlea smiles, a crooked curl at the corner of her lush mouth, and abruptly Buttercup has to leave, turning about so fast her hair fans out behind her.
Relationships: Buttercup/Westley (Princess Bride)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fic. Buttercup/fem!Westley; because they still fall in love, in exactly the same way.

_[Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Floren](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6qpa-mRLnI). Her favourite past-times were riding her horse, and tormenting the farm girl that worked there. Her name was Westlea, but she never called her that._

_Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westlea around._

* * *

“Farm girl,” Buttercup says briskly, striding past her horse with cloak swinging, and hair loose about her shoulders. “Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by _morning_.” Hard work, for leather, and she knows it - but blue eyes are nothing but gentle as Westlea looks up, tanned face calm and still.

“As you wish,” is the murmur, those eyes still so soft on her face as Westlea smiles, a crooked curl at the corner of her lush mouth, and abruptly Buttercup _has_ to leave, turning about so fast her hair fans out behind her.

* * *

_As you wish was all Westlea ever said to her._

* * *

Westlea is chopping wood, lean arms tanned strong and brown by the sun and her faded sleeves bunching at her elbows, hard at work as she swings the axe - but it doesn’t stop Buttercup from heaving over two heavy pails and dropping them by her feet.

“Farm girl,” she says firmly, “fill these with water.” Westlea looks up, slowly, her brow dappled with sweat and the soft fall of her fringe tumbling across her forehead - but even through sandy tresses, her eyes are still blue, still gentle.

“...Please,” adds Buttercup, and is not entirely sure why.

Westlea blinks once, still so slowly, and her eyelashes are as dark as her hair is not, freckles speckling the bridge of her nose and the rise of her cheeks. Her lips are pink, moving gently as she speaks. “As you wish,” she says quietly, and it sounds different than it usually does.

Buttercup startles, heart skittering warm beneath her ribs, and finds her steps slow as she turns back towards the farm house. When she glances back, Westlea is still turned towards her, calm and tall and quiet, and Buttercup has to look away.

* * *

_That day, she was amazed to discover that when Westlea was saying as you wish, what she meant was, I love you._

_And even more amazing was the day she realised she truly loved her back._

* * *

The roof of the kitchen is low, heavy smoky beams cutting across the verandah, and Westlea must bow her head beneath the beams as she comes inside, her arms laden with firewood and her faded blue shawl loose about her broad and lovely shoulders.

She moves to leave without a word, and before Buttercup knows why or how she turns away from the bench, a half-step towards the door and the young woman heading for it.

“Farm girl,” she says quickly, and then bites her lip; the words tumble out without thought and without reason. Westlea turns, slow and sure, and the look on her face is kind beyond measure.

Buttercup casts her eyes around the kitchen, over utensils and earthenware she knows as well as can be, searching for something new - something to explain to gentle blue eyes. She glances up, catches her gaze on the sloping curve of her mother’s clay pitcher.

“Fetch me that pitcher,” she says, only a little desperate.

Westlea turns away from the doorway, draws close with slow and careful steps, as though Buttercup were a fawn easily startled into flight. (There’s truth, there, in the frantic humming of her heart beneath her breast.) Still so slowly, Westlea reaches up, the sleeve of her tunic sliding down her arm as long, strong fingers close about the pitcher’s handle and lift it gently from its hook.

Buttercup does not look down at the weight of her asked-for pitcher pressed gently into her hands; all she sees is blue eyes, and the sweet movement of Westlea’s soft mouth. “As you wish,” she whispers, and when Buttercup smiles, the humming in her chest bursts into wingbeats, bright and pure and _brilliant_.

**Author's Note:**

> Buttercup's diary: I just want Westlea to wrap me up in her strong arms and call me princess, is that too much to ask--


End file.
